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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044251">This kiss, this kiss (it's criminal)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidiflora/pseuds/pallidiflora'>pallidiflora</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mr. Robot (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, sexy murder fantasies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:29:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidiflora/pseuds/pallidiflora</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom likes to imagine four things.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Darlene Alderson/Dominique DiPierro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>This kiss, this kiss (it's criminal)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/forparadise/gifts">forparadise</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dom likes to imagine killing Darlene. <em> Likes to</em>, at least, in the sense that someone can be said to like biting their nails or picking at scabs. The pleasure in these fantasies is that of worrying at a loose tooth with the tongue. She's imagined a few different ways: there's a bullet to the head, of course, precise but impersonal; a knife drawn across the throat or nudged between the ribs, a hot, intimate, sickening spurt of blood she'd have to scrub from her fingernails later. Hands on either side of the neck, constricting the carotid arteries; death in seconds, just long enough for Dom to say <em> you did this to yourself</em>. There's a theatricality to this last one that has a silly, private appeal, the way making faces in the mirror alone does. <em> Hasta la vista, baby! Alexa, play Bad to the Bone. </em></p><p> </p><p>She's taken enough psych classes to know that homicidal ideation is not unusual. There's nothing maladaptive in fantasizing about pushing your brother down the stairs, or whacking your shitty boss over the head with a big rock, caveman-style. Still, she can't help but think of Irving, reducing Santiago to his constituent parts, removing jewellery, prising fillings from his head, all while thinking idly about how he'd like a coffee or where to vacation next, as though reading a magazine at a doctor's office. Or Janice, methodically skinning some poor dead chihuahua and stitching its skin over a wire frame. Listening to the radio, humming to herself, going about her business.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dom likes to imagine dating Darlene.</p><p> </p><p>Where did people go on dates anymore? The movies? Amusement parks? They could go to Coney Island and point out the landmarks—<em>let's go on the merry-go-round after this. You ever been to Famous Nathan's? Oh and look, there's where you committed all those felonies! </em> Or she could cook at home, spaghetti with a jar of sauce dumped on it, something that would make her mother clutch her chest in horror. <em> Alexa, play that song from Lady and the Tramp. Something something, bella notte... </em> Maybe these were too banal for Darlene, who would prefer underground raves, or a dive bar where she could exclaim over obscene graffiti. <em> Ooh, check this one out: </em> Dominique DiPierro is an uptight goody-two-shoes who needs to get her pussy— <em>What? I'm just fucking with you. All it says is </em> Eagles suck<em>. </em></p><p> </p><p>Darlene would move in with her after a month, more because she was a mooch than anything else. Her mom would say <em> you're like—what do you guys call it? Hatchback lesbians? </em> Dom would reply, <em> oh god. U-Haul lesbians. Where did you even learn that? </em> Then: <em> well I do watch television, Dominique... </em> Dom didn't know Darlene's taste, but she could guess—she would want to paint the bathroom purple, and put up bead curtains for an ironic seventies feel, and buy ugly embroidered pillows at the thrift store. They would live in a kind of bohemian squalor, empty wine bottles on the counter, every armchair piled with books, using each others' dried-up tubes of mascara. Maybe they'd get a cat.</p><p> </p><p>Dom would take her to see her family at Christmas. Her mother would say <em> I don't know what Dominique's been feeding you, let me make you some </em> real <em> Italian food—have you ever had homemade torrone? You're gonna love it. </em> And Dom, embarrassed, silently gratified, would say <em> mom, stop fussing. </em> Taking off their coats in the foyer, Darlene would slip a cold hand under her sweater and whisper <em> relax</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Imagining this is akin, she thinks, to a particularly sophisticated form of torture. No waterboarding or captain's chair required, just her own mind at 3 AM, endlessly looping made-up film-footage of trips to Disneyland, Thanksgiving dinners, getting drunk and dancing to Bananarama in their shared living room.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dom likes to imagine fucking Darlene. Or Darlene fucking her, more like. <em> Just shut up and enjoy it</em>. Shoving her back so hard her head hits the wall, fingers inside her, mouth on her cunt. A fist in her hair, yanking her head back as if to slit her throat, saying <em> shh. Look at me. </em> Teeth and nails, drawing blood. Maybe Dom would ask Darlene to slap her, just once, with the back of her hand; her rings would leave a red welt, something Dom could touch later to remember.</p><p> </p><p>This is preferable to imagining them <em> making love</em>, a phrase Darlene would no doubt scoff at anyway. She'd fish out all the old scented candles from birthdays past, which after burning for a few minutes would probably stink to high heaven. She would dig out the mostly-full bottle of perfume her mother had insisted on buying her, some frou-frou thing from Dior or Gucci that smelled like soap. She'd dab some on the backs of her knees and then wash it off.</p><p> </p><p><em> Alexa, play some Sade, or something equally corny. </em> A nervous laugh. Kissing Darlene's forehead, rocking gently against her thigh; Darlene would press her face into the pillow when she came and would leave a mean-looking eyeliner smear. Dom would want to say <em> you're so beautiful </em> but couldn't, she'd clam up the way she always did during sex. Who knew what kind of awkward bullshit she'd come out with? Like the kid in first grade who called the teacher <em> mom</em>. She'd come without a sound and then say <em> uh </em> against the line of Darlene's jaw. <em> We're in the middle of having sex and there's something you're too embarrassed to tell me? Jesus, Dom, what am I gonna do with you? </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dom likes to imagine Darlene killing her. It's hard to say how she'd do it—she has an <em> Arsenic and Old Lace </em> air about her, someone who'd serve wine with strychnine just for the aesthetic of it. This imagery isn't very climactic, though, imagining herself wasting away in a spinstery bedroom not very cathartic. Coughing, wrapped in a shawl, perhaps her mother weeping at her side—<em>Alexa, play Danny Boy. </em> Terrible. Boring. </p><p> </p><p>Darlene probably knows how to use a gun, though she'd be clumsy with it, no sense of proper stance, the safety always off. She would say something like, <em> listen, I'm really sorry... </em> She'd point it at her heart but she'd miss—the heart's more centred than people think it is, she'd get her lung instead. The recoil would shock her. <em> I'm sorry, Dom. I'm sorry. </em></p><p><br/>Sometimes this is the only way she can fall asleep: imagining herself from a bird's-eye view, bleeding out, a shot in a movie. Darlene next to her, cigarette in one hand, patting her thigh with the other. <em> Not so bad, is it? </em></p>
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